


In Place of a Kiss

by Evil_Little_Dog



Category: Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Community: comment_fic, F/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_Little_Dog/pseuds/Evil_Little_Dog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  Wendy's a grown-up now.<br/>Disclaimer:  Absolutely, I own nothing.<br/>Prompt:  Peter Pan, Peter/+Wendy, Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where you'll never, never have to worry about grown up things again. (from the 2003 version of Peter Pan) by Mahmfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Place of a Kiss

She’s grown up now, with a daughter – and a granddaughter - of her own. The nursery’s been closed for decades; Nana laid to rest in the garden, as the cemetery wouldn’t allow a dog, no matter how good a nurse she was, on holy ground. Michael and John and the Lost Boys are old men now, with big bellies and whiskers. Her beloved parents are gone as well; buried in the cemetery that wouldn’t allow Nana within its walls. Her husband, too; with a stone to mark what his life had been. And she, she’s old now, with her hair all white, with only her childhood stories to remind her of the girl she once was. It has been over fifty years since she’s looked for a shadow in the clouds any more, or expect a boy to come and perch on her window, and offer her a thimble in place of a kiss. 

So it’s a beyond a surprise, one morning, when she sees an acorn, where an acorn shouldn’t be – in her windowsill. There are no oak trees around for leagues – while her father had become more prosperous, and her husband even more so, Wendy had wanted to stay in her childhood home, and her husband acquiesced to her wishes. The park is a good distance away (Nana had always thought it best the children in her care walk there as often as possible, to improve their stature, muscle tone, and keep them tuckered out – though Wendy only suspected that after she had a daughter of her own). Wendy opens the casement and picks up the acorn, wondering. No squirrel had ever dared climb up their building – Nana’s ghost even seems to keep them out of the yard – and jackdaws and magpies were more likely to collect shiny things, rather than the seed of an oak tree. She sets it on her dresser, in a lidded glass bowl where she keeps some treasures – a marble Tootles gave her from his collection, a tiny ivory ring she’d found in the park, flower seeds she was saving to plant in the spring. The acorn nestles in with the ring, and Wendy covers the bowl again. 

A month passes, and Wendy forgets about the acorn, at least until the morning after the full moon. She is on her morning constitutional, a walk around the ten blocks of the house, when she hears something unusual. The crow is unexpected, startling her, spinning her in a circle with the sound of it. She’s bound on all sides by high walls of stone or iron, and yew hedges and heavy trees hide any persons – or roosters – might make such a sound. That doesn’t stop her heart from pounding, and her breath to catch in her throat. “Peter?” she whispers, eyes wide. 

There is no answer, and she wonders, as birds continue their chortling at the morning sun, if she imagined it all. 

But that night, she leaves the window open, and sits up on her bed, her arms wrapped around her knees. 

He doesn’t come, and doesn’t come, and, after four nights, Wendy’s caught a cold from the weather, and cannot keep the window open any longer. After a week, when John comes to call, and, in fear at the paleness of her cheeks, he insists on a doctor to come to visit. 

Michael tuts over her fever, and prescribes her medicine, and, for a second, Wendy remembers feeding Peter and the Lost Boys their doses. Her daughter comes to visit, and her granddaughter with her, and for a while, her house is full of noise and light and laughter. And Wendy loves it; embraces it with all her strength, but it seems to lessen daily, until finally, Michael says, “Pneumonia,” and insists she go to hospital, immediately. 

But Wendy is nothing if not stubborn. Her heart feels old, and tired, and weary; and she, herself, is, as well. Instead, she requests a nurse to care for her when her family cannot, and, if she loses herself in asking for Nana, well, it’s to be expected, though it makes Michael, and John, and Jane weep. 

It is a cold evening, with a fire in the casement fighting against the chill in the room, and Wendy’s breath comes more and more shallow. The lights in the room seem to yawn at the lateness of the hour. Wendy opens her eyes, and thinks she sees a bulky, black shadow in the corner. “Are you come to see me away, Nana? Or guide me home?” 

Before the shadow can form itself, the window flies open, sending a gust of air in to blow out the lights and make the fire dance wildly. Wendy clutches at her blanket with fingers old and gnarled, watching in shock as a figure comes through the window, too; one her heart recognizes. 

Peter Pan sails across the room to land on the footboard of her bed. He studies her, his eyes still incredibly young, and Wendy smiles. “Oh, Peter. You came.” 

He presses a finger to his lips, hushing her. “I know they’re out in the hall, waiting,” he whispered as he hops off the footboard, floating toward her. “But they can’t have you any longer, Wendy! I’ve waited and waited, and now, I’ve come to take you home.” 

She swallows. “But Peter, I’m ever so old. A married woman, a widower. A grandmother!” 

“You are Wendy Darling,” he says, “and I want you to forget them.” He stabs a hand at the closed door. “Forget the grown up world, and come away with me.” His tremulous smile is at odds with the hand he stretches out to her. “You are needed in Neverland, Wendy. A boy needs a mother, and I…” 

“What, Peter?” she asks, her heart feeling like it could burst open. 

“I need you.” 

Wendy glances toward the door, and thinks on what lay beyond it – her family. Jane and little Roberta; Michael and John and the Boys. She can almost smell their tears and their sorrow and their fears. A part of her aches, but another part, a stronger part, is ready to lay aside the tiresome life of an adult. 

She turns back to Peter, who chews his lip, his hand starting to falter where he holds it out to her. Wendy smiles, and takes his hand, somehow not surprised that her own is no longer palsied and weak, wrinkled and spotted from age, but supple and young, with nails broken and chewed. She rises from her bed – floats, even without the pixie dust – and whispers, “I’m ready,” and doesn’t look back at the shell she leaves behind. 

And Peter crows his delight, and pulls her along with him out of the window. “Oh, Wendy! There’s so much to show you. There’s a new Beast in Neverland, a great, Black Dog, who frightens the pirates when she barks. And there are centaurs, and horses with wings and horns! And the Indians, they made me a chief, but I refused to marry their princess.” 

Wendy laughs, and nods, and knows that there will be more stories, and now, she can write her own in whatever language she chooses, on their way back to Neverland. 

X X X

After the funeral, Jane stands in her mother’s bedroom, fishing through a glass bowl filled with ratty things – an ancient marble; a lock of golden hair. She finds an acorn, and studies it, confused. For a second, maybe, she remembers a story about a kiss – and discounts it, dropping the acorn back into the bowl. For she has grown too old to remember, or believe, in Neverland.


End file.
